Typically, Deepa manned the telephone in the afternoons, sorted through the stack of unopened mail, filed records. These tasks were not what drew her to the clinic, though. Her real interest lay in diagnosis, in taking histories, collecting symptoms, forming an opinion. People were stories, and every part of their stories influenced their physical and mental health. She flipped through the textbooks, perused indicators of the more common diseases plaguing the patients—ear infections, urinary tract infections, tuberculosis, bronchitis, malaria. When the process of elimination left her with a handful of potential diagnoses, she proudly presented the list to her father, like Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery.

She settled in, slid the tiffin toward her, removed each circular container from the wire holder, popped open the lids—first the sambar, then the aloo curry, the raita.

John Uncle’s six-foot frame appeared in the doorway. He wore a doctor’s coat over brown pants and a white shirt. Gray specks flecked his light brown hair. Unlike some Eurasians who only spoke English, John knew Bengali and Hindi as well. His great-grandfathers were British, his great-grandmothers Indian, and the children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren all married other Eurasians, himself included. John and her Papa-ji had been best friends since first meeting at medical school in London twenty years earlier. After completing their training, they returned to India to open the clinic together.

“How was school, Deepa? Learn anything interesting?” Uncle asked.

She finished chewing, swallowed. “I received the highest marks in my class on my maths test.” Though of course she didn’t really care about her marks in math. Only her performance in composition mattered to her.

“Good girl,” he said, patting her head.

Her mother followed him, wearing a beige cotton sari, her hair wound tight in a bun. “I didn’t hear you come in, beta,” she said, kissing Deepa on the cheek. She poured water into a large ceramic bowl, lathered her hands with soap. Nora Aunty, John’s wife, carried a box of bandages into the room. She managed the clinic’s accounts, paid the taxes. Her sari was a pale peach, her reddish brown hair hung loose around her shoulders. Her father, a British diplomat, had met and married her Indian mother in Bombay. Nora was born in Paris and spoke French fluently but was happy to move to her mother’s homeland to build a life with John. When the clinic was slow, she taught Deepa some simple French phrases and promised her they’d travel to Europe together someday.

A loud bang near the front door startled them. It sounded like a gunshot. Her mother ran to her side.

“What on earth?” Nora Aunty said. She set her box down.

Deepa’s father held his hand out to keep everyone still. He picked up a cricket bat that he kept in the corner of the room, leaned it against his shoulder. “Who’s there?” he shouted. “What do you want?”